The Devil In Disguise

CHAPTER 10: Remind Yourself

I sat in my own bed the next day, crying.

Tears streamed down my face like a waterfall, spewing down onto my fluffy white covers and soaking them in salty sadness. I was so fucking stupid.

So. Fucking. Stupid.

I let myself go there. Get drunk. Get my drink fucking spiked and who knows what could have happened if Xander wasn't there?

I felt so, so, unbelievably small. After all I had been through, I told myself I had become responsible. Yet, at the first chance to have fun and be normal, I lunged for it.

When would I understand I'd never be a normal person? Everywhere I went, something terrible happened. And it was so close to happening yesterday.

I didn't want to talk to anyone because I was so ashamed. I knew deep down that I didn't have to be, but I couldn't help it. After sending Xander a pathetic thank you message, I switched off my phone and haven't looked at it since. I knew I'd already received a lot of texts asking if I was okay, but I wasn't; I felt violated and it was kind of my fault. Yes, that guy spiked my drink, but I was naive enough to not see it coming. And so fucking useless that Xander had to save me.

Wow, I must have looked like a helpless damsel in distress. And I hated it. I'd promised myself I would never be so helpless again, in whatever situation.

What made this whole thing worse was that I felt exactly how I did the first time he came for me. It brought those memories back to the surface after I'd buried them deep. The naivety — I thought I'd lost it. I'd been so foolish when he'd done the same thing to me, and you'd think I'd have learnt.

You know what? I told myself. Remind yourself. Remind yourself why you can't be a normal girl. Why you moved here in the first place. Remind yourself that you can't get so drunk at a party that you're vulnerable to a mere boy, let alone a fully grown man. Remind yourself who the fuck you are and how stupid you shouldn't be! 

Getting off my bed, I wiped the tears away. I walked to the library room in my new house; box sized, but filled to the ceiling with books on shelves. Mum had decorated this room first. Whenever I felt like being alone, I came here and picked a random book off a shelf and started reading it, forcing myself to concentrate on its story until I was submerged by its plot. Then, a few hours later I'd come back to reality feeling a lot better. 

Inhaling the familiar, inviting smell of paper pages, I went to the back wall and removed an ordinary looking cook book. However, I didn't pick it randomly. Opening it to page one hundred and forty five, I took the pictures out. The pictures of me, lying on the ground, blood covering my face and every place where he'd slashed me with his knife, trying to stop me from getting away. 

I'd grabbed these sadistic polaroids and shoved them in my bloody pocket, gasping for breath, gasping in pain, trying not to gasp or breathe or move as I hid behind a wall with a brick that was conveniently lying in the corner. My ankles were bruised from the tight shackles which were around them before, and I'd bitten my tongue to divert myself from all the pain I was feeling everywhere.

He'd followed the trail of blood I'd left, and my heartbeat sped up as I heard the sound of his polished shoes on the dirty floor. His footsteps stopped just on the other side of the wall; I held my brick, ready, trying not to think about how lightheaded I was getting from blood loss. I knew that he could see that my blood had led me into this dusty room, and I could almost taste the victory radiating off of him. He thought he'd caught me finally, cornered me. He couldn't afford me getting away.

But I was cleverer than he had predicted, and more desperate, so a millisecond after he had walked through the worn doorway, I lunged at him with all I had, smashing my brick into his head with all the force I could muster. Not enough, but just enough.

He'd fallen to the ground, unconscious.

That's when I'd made my escape; after rummaging his pockets for the key to the house, I ran for my life, losing blood all the way, ran through the woods, till I reached a neighbourhood. Then I smashed my fist on a random door, and when a young woman with kind brown eyes had finally answered, I was already on the ground, battling for consciousness. But I knew then that my fate was in her hands and I was safe, so a wave of relief washed over me as I nearly gave in to the darkness.

Before she had called the ambulance, I asked her one thing. I knew the police would take the polaroids for evidence, since I had been kidnapped and harmed for two weeks, but I wanted a copy for myself. I didn't know why it was so important then, but I was so glad I'd done it now.

I'd asked her to photocopy the pictures. After I could get out of hospital, I went with my parents to her house. We thanked her profusely and Dad even burst into tears. Just before we went, I looked around and asked quietly, "Did you photocopy the pictures? I know it was a lot to ask, but..." I trailed off, feeling ashamed. I shouldn't have asked her to do that; she'd already saved me, a big enough favour on its own.

"No, it's fine, honey. I did it," she said kindly, handing me a small stack of glossy paper held together with a paperclip, each one a picture of me bleeding from wounds he had given me throughout the two-week period. As I looked back up at her gratefully, I was taken aback to see barely contained anger shining in her eyes.

"Whoever did that is sick. Absolutely sick," she said, and her voice shook. I don't know if it was the sympathy she felt, or the fact she saved my life, or how she did this favour for me, or just the pure emotion in her voice, but without thinking I ran forward and threw my arms around her.

After a moment, she wrapped hers around me, and a thousand emotions of my own resurfaced as I cried into her shoulder. Her strong lavender scent hugged me along with her and I trembled with tears, feeling nothing but raw pain, but also an immensely unexplainable gratitude for this stranger.

Within a few weeks, Katy and I became best friends. She may have been ten years older than me but it didn't matter; she was the only true friend, and the best friend I'd ever had at that point, and it had all started when she'd saved my life just by opening the door and letting me in. I loved her so much and I told her everything that happened to me in school and home and in my own mind. And she gave me advice as if she was a therapist tailored just for me. Everything she did and said helped in every way, and I didn't think I could love her more.

I had nearly two hundred pictures of us, laughing, having fun. Katy and I were like sisters. Then, one day, I'd posted a picture of us standing in front of her house, posing with ice cream and laughing, captioning it, 'death by ice cream — but don't worry, Katy will save us.' Obviously, everyone who followed me knew that she had saved my life, and that we were best friends and that I loved her with all my heart.

But on the photo, you could clearly see her house number — 78 — and the street sign saying 'Sparrow Way' in front of it. Her address.

A week later, she'd been found dead.

A/N

A fate she didn't deserve. Can we get an F in the comments for Katy?

One vote = one prayer. 

deainlustris